Hiding In Plain Sight
by IsYourH3artTaken
Summary: Charlotte thought she found safe barriers within herself in Dauntless. But she soon finds that to be wrong when a certain tattooed leader insists on breaking them down, one by one. Eric/OC. R
1. The Price of Dissent

**Disclaimer: I don't own Divergent, only my OC.**

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**Hiding In Plain Sight**

_01_

_The Price of Dissent _

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My family is scattered.

We've never had a civil conversation since my older sister transferred to Erudite. Our mom and dad always raised us to be loyal, to carry faith and prosperity in our hearts without it poisoning our self-reason and fracture the ability to say what's on our minds. The words you choose can lead to treachery and deceit. I know my parents would rather give their heads than turn the coin, but sometimes it's hard to tell. I can hear the words in silence if I really stop and think, about it, but I'll never know for sure because they never give the decency to speak as if I was alive.

Candor has always been built on honesty, saying it like it is and meaning it no less. Especially with family. That's all we have in the end. At least, that's what they tell me. The telltale stories are so contrived sometimes, a fairy tale seems more believable. But that's all we know them as; just stories. Something to tell your children before you put them down to bed. I want to talk about my sister and her choice to leave us, but her name never escapes my lips. They feel betrayed. I know they do. We thought she was going to stay; she told us she was.

Maybe she was scared. Maybe she felt confused and pressured and the test results didn't come back the way she wanted them to. I still remember how the blood dripped from her palm like rain water, the droplet hitting the stones so quietly like a pin falling on a carpet. She was no longer Colette from then on, no longer my sister. She belonged to Erudite. That was six years ago, but the weight of her decision hung steel over my household. I don't remember the last time my parents smiled or laughed at something I said. They used to do that everyday, but now, I consider myself lucky to be graced with one once every two months.

It's like living with ghosts. Seeing them everywhere, but never hearing, smelling, or touching them. When somebody asks me who I live with, I'm always inclined to say "alone" because that's what it feels like. I feel alone in an old house with too much space that I don't have the slightest idea what to do with. I miss Mocky and his softs mewls and the pitter patter of his paws on the floor. Mocky was my childhood pet, a stray cat Colette and I found while playing together outside. He was so nefarious at first, hissing and scratching at us if we came too close for comfort. He came around though, when Colette baited him with a chunk of dry ham.

After that, he was inseparable with us. Our parents detested the idea of indoor animals, irregardless of our faction being okay with it, but he was aloud to stay within our property, provided that we feed him and clean him regularly. His name was derived from the fact that if either Colette or I spoke in his presence, he would respond with little yowls that sounded like he was mocking our childish voices. That's how he became Mocky. Sometimes in the dead of night, we'd sneak outside and smuggle him up into our shared room so he wouldn't have to spend the night in the cold air. One of us had to stay up the entire night so we could take him back outside before our parents woke and caught the smell of cat fur in our room.

He died a week before Colette's Choosing day. We never found out what took him from us, just that he wouldn't wake from his favorite napping bush. It was the first and last time I ever cried in front of my parents. I can still remember their faces...so cold and uncaring. It makes me wonder what they'd do if something ever happens to me, if they'd feel anything at all. Maybe they switched off all extremes of emotion when Colette left us.

Maybe I should do the same.

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I can't look at myself in the mirror.

I know I look tired and expired. The aching of my knees and soreness at my back tell me so. Sleep hasn't been easy these pasts few days. The stress and frugal approach of my Choosing day has worked the circuits of my brain and cranked them until there was nothing left except ash and the taste of metallic in my mouth. I told myself that it was just a phase, a glitch that I will soon get over, but the day has finally come and I don't feel any different. I go through the motions of a bleak morning and keep my head hung low while I'm in the bathroom so I don't make contact with my own gaze in the mirror.

I can hear my mother downstairs, fixing the table for breakfast, pouring my usual glass of orange juice. I dry my damp face with a towel, then rake my fingers through the mess of tendrils I call hair. The color looks dull against the light, sun ridden tone of my skin and I think back of when it used to shine so brilliantly under the summer afternoon's glare, when I had the desire to actually do something with it than leave it down and simple. I experimented with different braids and buns, even sleeping in them so when I brushed it in the morning the waves would resemble the flow of sea.

I just leave it straight now, smooth and natural, hitting against the very bottom band of my bra. Colette and I used to compete on who could grow theirs the fastest. Hers was just at the small of her back when she left. Mine will take months to reach that extent and I know if she were here right now, she would bounce all over the walls, gloating. _I win, _her voice echos in my ear and an involuntary shivers goes from the nape of my neck all the way down to my spine. Her presence was so strong, I still feel it sometimes, but I can never understand if it's a cold kind of comfort or just my imagination carrying me away.

I tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear and go downstairs to breakfast. My parents are already seated when I walk in and don't even look at me when I take my place. They sit separated at either ends of the table, my chair wedges in between and the space opposite of me where Colette used to sit remains empty. Mom had cleaned it of silverware and china the day she departed. Even the chair is missing, like she never existed. There was never a Colette Rowe. She's just a memory, a fantasy I wish came true.

I eat my eggs and chopped fruit with equal amount of silence. The taste of the oranges seem a bit off, bitter somehow, and I smack my lips together to wash away it's thick residue.

I think about the Choosing ceremony and the conflict that must've clouded my sister's judgement as she stood in front of each bowl. Making decisions are never an in between. It's yes or no; right or wrong. It can be easy or hard. But that's what they say, what I grew up believing. Now that I'm older, I'm not sure if that's true anymore. There's so much more to everything we know. I know there's more to my parent's coldness, their inability to connect with me anymore. I spent the last two years rearranging my confused thoughts, searching through possibilities, digging for pieces to see if they matched.

But my parents are an unapproachable enigma that I never seem to make sense of and I don't know how much longer I can try. I'm tired of being their model. Doing what they want, saying what they liked, and not caring at all, just as they do. There's more to this kind of secluded life. I just can't tell them that to their face. I could've, a long time ago, when Candor traits still ran strong in me and I embraced them like second nature. But I'm changing and they don't see it. Maybe they do and they just don't care. Is there even a difference?

At times, I wonder if this is how Colette felt all those years. Trapped. Unseen.

I think, finally, I understand now. I know what I'm going to do.

We leave immediately for The Hub after breakfast. The ride is short and uneventful. My mother speaks only once to me and it's to tell me to adjust my skirt because it's ruffled at the hem. I do what she says and smooth away the wrinkles with the pads of my fingers, then sit back and rest my temple against the window of the bus as it carries us closer to the first and only opportunity of separation or a lifetime of solidarity and hollow words with no volume. I don't believe in my faction anymore, that much is certain. How could I when they refuse to acknowledge my time of need? They talk about secrets and lies and dishonesty like it's something of the past, but I know every Candor member is guilty of one.

No one wants to think that they could be one of the people left with nothing and no one. I know it's a fear I have to face. I can't walk away from it, even when I think it won't follow. I know Colette wasn't content with what she had, so went against it. I know the feeling because I received my aptitude test results yesterday. And it came back Erudite.

Just like her.

I never once pondered following her, because I knew retracing her path won't make me feel any better. This was something I had to choose on my own and mine alone. I don't think of my family because I know they rarely think of me. I see the vacancy of their stares, the pointlessness of their words and it just feels like water through my fingers. I can't take their anger, their resentment and depression they feel for my sister and make it apart of me. I can't let myself be that open anymore. When you let someone in, you come back a little more damaged than before. It's not worth the struggle.

The bus hisses to a stop and I automatically stand up, smooth my shirt, then skip out into the sidewalk. I hear my parents follow at my heels, but don't bother to wait for them to catch up, and just continue on into the building. There's an elevator that rides us all the way to the top floor, where the ceremony has taken place for over a hundred years. The room is almost full when we enter and we take our seats in the middle row with the rest of Candor. A light shines brightly on the stage, like an ethereal beam highlighting each faction stone.

I study each one until a tall, short haired woman steps up into the podium. Jeanine Matthews, here to show us all where we belong. Her face has become something of an icon since she rose to representative. She's often reverred for her strength, leadership, and quiet sense of power. I listen to her monologue with very little interest, as I have heard it before years ago, yet somehow I find myself mouthing along her lines. The words etches into my brain, like a bad scar. Her eyes flick over every face, but it seems that she has us all under her retina, looking at us all directly. She's the only person that has that effect; the illusion to do an impossible thing.

But that's who she is. An impossibly powerful woman.

Their introduction ends and the round of names are called. The z's are first, and I sit still, ankles crossed, waiting for them to move up the alphabet. After ten minutes, my name floats into the air.

"Charlotte Rowe."

My parents rise robotically to let me pass and I shuffle into the aisle without looking their way. I think I hear my mother call my name, and I'm too close to stopping and going back, but I convince myself it's just a trick of the ears and continue my way up to the podium. My feet feel heavy as I pad up the steps and stand in front of the five white bowels. There is no sound in my ears. No blipping heartbeats, the wheezing of each breathe I inhale, not even the words a representative tells me as he slips me the knife. All I can comprehend us that time is ticking and my blood can only drip onto one surface.

I have to make a choice.

The knife is like rubber in my palm and I hold onto it tighter so it won't clatter to the floor. I know I look inept as I stand there, unmoving eyes trained on a spot on the dagger's blade, trying to make sense of the inner workings I call my mind. A crick pinches my gut and I automatically take a step forward toward one bowl. I don't want to go back. I never want to go back to them, to Candor, to my parents. To a house that feels empty and offers no relief. I don't want to go home to nothing.

My feet take me closer to the bowl of my choice and I use the knife to prick my pointer finger, wincing when it goes deeper than I intend. I press my thumb against the cut and watch as a single tear drop of blood dribbles down and splashes onto the lit coals. It sizzles, sending a ray of warmth up into my face and I breath in the scent of my own fluid.

_Dauntless._

I choose Dauntless.

I need more than just the sobering of words. I need to know that I'll be okay physically and emotionally. Telling myself that is not enough. It's never going to be enough, but now I can say that it's going to change. I'm jumping into the unknown, taking everything that has bottled up in me and throwing it all away. It's not apart of me anymore. I bled it out and I will bleed ounces more to keep it that way.

I turn around when a representative announces my decision, but I don't look at my former faction. The open arms and cheering of Dauntless grasps me like a straight jacket and doesn't let go until I'm sitting down, thumb pressed into my gashed finger to stop the blood flow. The ceremony proceeds as normal and concludes with a few final words from each representative. I stand with my new faction as soon as it's over, a weight lifting from my shoulders and my mind feels so much calmer. Collected. For a short, brief second, I feel like myself again. Not the girl Candor has processed me to be.

I follow the herd to the lower floors, but before I board the elevator, an invisible force stops me in my tracks.

My parents.

Despite how long they shut me out, the loneliness they inflicted on me and the sense that I'll never fill that gape in their heart because having me around isn't enough, I feel like as their child, my first obligation is toward them. They brought me into this world. If joining Dauntless was a form of leaving it, I have to say goodbye; my final act act as a Candor and their daughter. When I walk back to the auditorium, there is still some adults left talking amongst each other or other representatives. My eyes scan the lines of empty seats and fall upon the two where my parents once sat, but they are no longer there. The cushions are indented from the impact of their bodies, but I don't see either of them.

They're gone.

An almost numbing sort of relief settles over me and I spin on my heel, jogging back to the elevator so I don't miss the commute down. I make it just in time and slid in between the doors just as they're about to close. As I feel us make our descend, I shut my eyes for a second and attempt to centre myself. It's over, my thoughts tell me. I did it. I made my choice and I know I made the right one. I feel free, like I'm ten years old again, lying in my parents dirt backyard with Mocky sleeping across my stomach as I stare up at the cloudless blue sky. A part of that little girl is still in me, and something inside hearkens; a switch I never knew was there before flicks on.

I'm no longer Charlotte Rowe, sister of Colette Rowe, and youngest daughter of Philip and Irene Rowe.

I'm Charlotte of Dauntless.

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When I wait for the train to stop at my pick up, there's a lightness to my body I haven't felt before. I tilt my face up toward the sun and just take in the breathable scent of oil and rusted metal. Warmth floods my cheeks and I feel it pulse at my neck and radiate all the way down to my toes, making me wiggle them in my shoes. It's an emotion I can't quite pin point, but it's there and it's nothing like what solitude brings to me. I don't feel like there's something vital in me missing, though I know I'm not whole either. Maybe I will be one day, but the journey won't be easy. It never is.

I curl my fingers together when the train chugs around the curve and the others begin to cheer wildly. I'm prepared for it to wheez to a stop, but it gushes past us and flies down the track, leaving dust and gusts of wind in its wake. I see long handles hooked onto the metal plates and instinctively break into a sprint after it, hearing the initiates quickly follow. It's like a child attempting to capture and bottle a butterfly and I'm this close to snaring my prize. My legs carry me close enough to reach the proximity of one handle and I risk the jump. My hand shoots out and curls around the cold steel and I propel myself forward, clinging close to the edge until I'm able to push the door open.

My body stumbles forward and I almost fall to my knees, but I catch myself on the wall. The thumping of other bodies alert me that the tranfers have made it on as well and I turn to see them all piling aboard, laughing and smiling at the rush of it all. By that time, I'm breathing heavily and rest my back against the wall, exhaling slowly so I don't lose all my energy. Inside, I'm over the moon. I've taken the first step and so far, it wasn't beating me down completely. There's still some resolve in me, but I know it will take only one good hard blow to shatter it. I can't risk my walls breaking down so early in the game so I lock myself inside my thoughts and wrap all the negativity in a soundproof blanket so it doesn't make a noise.

Everyone around me is so ecstatic. I wish I can join in on their celebration, but I don't feel comfort around strangers, even when I see a dark haired girl wearing the same Candor colors, laughing with another. A side of me is still slightly shaken and mildy surprised that I even went through with the switch at Choosing. I could have easily stayed, kept up my role as dutiful daughter and student, living blissfully in ignorance. I could _have,_ but I don't want to. I want a normal life. I want happiness.

But sometimes I think it's not for me.

"Get ready," a supervisor tells us and stands at the edge of the exit calmly, then after a chilling moment, leaps out and rolls onto a rooftop. I jump up from my corner and rush forward with the others to see if she's okay.

And she is. She's standing on her feet at waving at us to do the same. It's either jump or ride the train until it stops in the middle of nowhere and you're left alone, for the rest of your life. I experienced the latter for a fleeting moment. I never want it to happen again and the choice is like glass. I'm jumping. If I can hop on the train, getting off of it shouldn't be any less difficult.

I teeter back against the wall again, taking a deep breath, and wait until we zip by the next building at a clear angle. I don't let the seconds pass me for too long because I know if it does, I'll lose all my courage and stay in the trains until it coasters off the rails. I heard stories about people that fell off in mid flight or hid in the train cart until it eventually hit the end of the line, never to be seen again. I'll never let that happen to me. I'll never let myself become a one lined anecdote.

So I jump.

My body soars through the air and I hit solid ground, landing with a bruising thud on my side. Tiny stone cobbles press painfully against my cheek and I feel dust and soil sprinkle in my hair. My eyes are clenched shut, but I open them gradually as sunlight beats down on my face. My pupils dilate and I slowly sit up on my knees, shaking my hair to get off the grime and earth. Everyone else has made it off in time, and stir lightly on the floor, slightly disoriented.

"Alright, listen up," a voice cuts. My head snaps to the source and I see a man standing on top of the ledge. He's older, in his mid twenties maybe, and with many piercings along his left eyebrow and both ears. The image matches the rough tone of voice. "I'm Eric. I'm one of your leaders. If you want to enter Dauntless, this is the way in. And if you don't have the guts to jump, then you don't belong in Dauntless."

"Is there water at the bottom or something?" A boy asks.

"Well, I guess you'll find out," Eric answers very cryptically. "Or not." None of us are particularly reassured and a lot just glance around warily. "Someone's gotta go first. Whose it gonna be?"

A beat passes.

Nobody steps forward.

I look around and see everyone looking here or there, anywhere besides Eric. They're scared, nervous because they don't know if the fall could take their lives, in which it very much can, depending on what we're landing on. But it can't be something dangerous. We have to come out of this alive, more or less. Scraping blood off cement seems pretty tricky anyways. When no speaks up to volunteer, my own lips part to offer to go first, but someone else beats me to it.

"Me," a petite, brown haired girl answers and wades through the crowd. She's pretty, cherubic looking somehow, but the glaze of her eyes she's been through more than she deserves and it forced her to grow up quick.

Eric steps down from the ledge without a word and stands behind her when she scales the ledge, apprehensive and probably second guessing herself. She sheds her coat and noticeably stiffens when a boy makes an obscene comment towards her. I glare at him, biting the inside of my cheek so I don't snap and tell him to shut up.

"Today, initiate," Eric clips when the girl doesn't move. She stands with her arm slightly extended at her sides and I count to ten in my head, moving my lips soundlessly with each number and once I reach five, she leaps down into the hole. I hold my breath and wait for any echo that she landed safely at the bottom, but the only sound is the wind blowing through my hair.

"Is she okay?" I ask, glancing at our pierced leader.

Eric looks at me unassumingly, eyes hard. "Why don't you go down and check?"

I narrow my gaze at him a little and just cross my arms, and the contact holds until he pivotes around to face us.

"Alright, whose next?" He says, his attention flickering to each and every face. He's so much taller than what I first noticed and probably surpasses my father's extensive height of 6'1.

Again, silence swallows the entire group. I missed my chance the first time and I figure I might as well get it over with because if I stand by and watch as the rest take their dives, I'll be too fearful when the time comes for mine.

"I guess I'll go," I declare and Eric gestures me to go forward with a hand, not saying anything. I weave my way forward and swing my legs over the ledge, then tentatively stand on my feet, putting pressure on my heels so I don't wobble. Peering down, I see a dark hole leading down into what I guess is the main compound.

It's pitch black and impossible for me to see anything.

"Don't be scared, girl," the same voice that teased the first girl says, and the boy chuckles, light and every kind of obnoxious.

I ball my hands into fists, but refuse to lose composure in front of them. "I'm not."

"Then jump," Eric shoots back, breaking the banter between the other boy and I, but I know his remark wasn't to be taken carelessly. He meant it as an order.

I take a deep breath and tell myself that I'll be okay. It'll be fine. Darkness can't hurt me. Only my mind.

"I think she's gonna cry," the boy quips again, chuckling along with two other transfers.

A valve in me snaps and I whirl around, keeping the balance at level. "How about I use your body as a landing pad?" I bite in the boy's direction.

He grins. "How about I try yours out first?"

I catch the double meaning in his words and my fingers clench together in anger. I'm plenty used to people jabbing at me freely like this, but it doesn't mean I'll lie back and take it. Technically, I'm not Dauntless yet. I'm still Candor. This situation is where my DNA shows. I stick one foot out to come down to show him what exactly I thought of his little suggestion, but Eric's rocky command keeps me rooted.

"Enough!" He exclaims, eyebrows pulling together. He looks up at me on the edge then behind him at the boy. The burning in his eyes is enough to unsettle anyone. "Another word from either of you and you're out. Got it?"

I nod, looking at him dead in the eye. "Got it."

Without facing the drop zone, I wave goodbye to my onlookers, then let myself fall back. My hair swirls in front of my face, and my vision is partially blocked by my thick tendrils. I see bits of brickwall and flashes of the blue sky get smaller and smaller until I bounce onto a springy net. My skin pinches from the material and I blink away the stars that dots my vision. My heart is pumping fast and blood runs hotly through my veins like a river, making me feel very alive and energized. I stare up at the hole and faintly see the wall where I had just flung myself from seconds ago. From the opposite end, it really doesn't look that high.

I sit up and swing one leg over to glide off, but another man walks up, tall, not as tall as Eric but looks to be about the same age. He grabs my waist with both hands and lifts me up and onto steady ground as if I weigh close to nothing. He's handsome and with a voice that's smooth but with jagged edges, like thick syrup poured over broken glass. I remember a boy in my school during the seventh grade that had the exact same eyes. We were supposed to go on our very first date together the day after my sister's Choosing, but it never happened.

"What's your name?" The guy asks me, removing his hands from my waist.

"Charlotte," I tell him, running a hand over my forehead. My tossle in the net leaves me disoriented and the steps I take are small and cautious.

"Second jumper: Charlotte." People cheer and yip my name, patting my back in a friendly manner as I take my place beside the first jumper. Glancing up at the large screen, I see that her name is Tris.

I stand by her and watch as one by one, the initiates plummet into the net. Some scream in terror while others hoot in pure adrenaline. It takes a while to get them all to the common floor, even longer when the last jumper takes her sweet time and Eric is forced to shove her off when she leasts expects it. She flails to the net like a sack of potatoes and I cover my mouth with one hand to disguise my smirk. If it had been the boy I was exchanging snipes with earlier, I probably would've burst into laughter, but he was the fifth jumper. I can't help but give credit where it's due.

When everyone gathers together, the Dauntless born are taken with another leader, leaving the remaining under Four's authority, the man that helped me off the net. As he leads us to our quarters, I think for the first time that maybe, just maybe, I might make it here.

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**A/N: Is it worth continuing? ****Let me know - review? :)**

**Thanks for reading! Hope you liked it.**

**Over and out~**


	2. Think Fast, Shoot Faster

**by _IsYourH3artTaken_**

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**Hiding In Plain Sight**

_02_

_Think Fast, Shoot Faster_

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It's clear that our leaders are not someone to trifle with. It's like speaking to a parent when you're a toddler. You act with respect - or you keep your mouth shut. I already seen Four almost bite the other Candor girl's head off for one salty comment. Humor wasn't an appreciative trait - maybe tolerated in your bunk alone talking to your friends, but not to a leader's face. You might as well stick a knife to your jugular.

Four takes us down a spiral staircase that leads to the Pitt, which looks like a suicidal playground. There's no roof except for metal bars hooked along the ceiling, or lack thereof, allowing sunshine to filter through. The walls appear to be made of metal and there's white blocks stacked everywhere.

"This is the Pitt," Four says, and turns to look at us. "The center of life here at Dauntless."

I peer over the edge and see crowds of other Dauntless members enjoying themselves down below. There's so many of them. It's like watching tiny ants converge in their nests. I never really once imagined what daily life was like at other factions. Maybe it was just too hard for me to conjure up, being so accumulated to the Candor way. But seeing it now, it gives me a different feeling than what I first anticipated. I find myself intrigued, instead of misplaced. That's a first.

Four shows us our bunks next and it's communal. Everything is, even the bathrooms. Bathtubs are lined together without any walls or type of privacy. There's no modesty. It's all so open. I don't know how I'll be able to cope with that aspect. They're actually forcing us to live together. At my old home, I never bothered to close the door when I showered because most of the time I would have the house to myself. I won't have the privilege of doing that here for the next ten weeks. It feels like a prison sentence. I don't know what they're going to have us do over the course of time, but I know it will be demanding; brutal. They'll challenge us in every way imagined. Physically, mentally, emotionally.

And it's what I want. I'm tired of living so...simply, quietly. They call us Candor loud mouths, but my family exhibits the polar opposite. I wish the term applies to us, but it doesn't. Not really. I guess that goes to show not everything is what it seems. In every faction, there will be someone who excels reverse traits from what they're born in. Either it's natural or something life had committed to change it. In my case, it's just life.

"Get changed," Four orders as he slinks from the room, leaving us mildly shocked at our quarters, but none are in the position to protest.

They leave piles of Dauntless clothes on our beds, strictly black. Mostly regular pants and long sleeves, with some tank tops for casual wear or sleep. Of course, we're also forced to change in the exact same room. I don't start stripping right away like some people do and just hesitate, unfolding the clothes slowly. I glance around, seeing a lot of bare torsos and legs. It doesn't exactly bother me, as long as they keep the last layers on. It's just my body I'm not used to flashing around. I'm not insecure about it, I just never been exposed to it, if you count changing dresses in front of my sister when I was seven. But all these boys are not my sister. If it were all girls, it would be a different story.

But there's no point in procrastinating, so slowly, I peel off my shirt, hearing more whistles go off as another female shirt sheds. I feel my cheeks redden and I tug the Dauntless clothes over my head as quick as I can. I unzip my skirt and let it fall to my ankles, thankful that the new shirt I'm supporting covers my top half, then hike up the new pants. It's more comfortable than that damn skirt and it fits snugly around my legs, though is slightly too long and drags a bit on the floor when I walk. I roll them up a few times and pin them secure with a bobby pin I keep in my old Candor wear so the cuffs don't unravel. The shoes they provide are also black and sturdy, made of a solid combat material. I feel like a new person when I tie them on, completely sheathed in ebony.

I feel like Dauntless.

We have to burn our old clothes after we finish. It doesn't surprise me, given our last displays of rules, so I fling them into the incinerator without second thoughts. I never quite liked them anyways. It was nice to switch to a fresh color. A world of black of white just isn't for me.

They whisk us away to dine right after that. When we walk into the mess hall, the room is almost completely full. Dauntless-born stare at us like we just rose from the dirt, unimpressed and I feel a strong sense of unwelcoming. I know it's not out of intimidation, but by the thought that they find us to be unworthy. To them, we're just a couple cans waiting to be crushed. There's a few spots left on some tables, but room is scarce and it's uneasy to sit next to someone who probably want me out. But I can't wither away into my cave like some scared little mouse. I joined Dauntless for a reason and no one will chase me will from it. Not even my neighbor.

I find a seat at a half full table and stake my claim. The occupants shoot me a strange look, but I brush it off and lift the mug to my lips, acting like nothing is wrong and I'm where I should be. I know that's it's true, but there's always a side of you that tells you otherwise. Makes you feel worthless and incompetent. I left that part of me at Candor. I hope it doesn't follow me here.

After minutes of eating, a portion of the diners start to slam their mugs onto the tables in rapid succession, blending into a sound that sounds like a bell ringing. I'm caught off guard and glance around to see what the hell is going on.

A man walks up on the balcony, calmly, and his stride carries authority. The cup slamming stops. "Initiates, stand," he commands.

We do.

"You have chosen to join the warrior faction," he continues. "Tasked with the defense of this city and all it's inhabitants. We believe in ordinary acts of bravery and the courage that drives one person to stand up for another. Respect that. Do us proud."

Everyone erupts into cheers and it's so loud, I briefly cover my ears with my hands until someone hauls me up into their arms and raises me above their heads. I panic for a second, looking down as the guy holding me begins to carefully pass me down along the crowd with the other initiates. They carry at my legs, back and arms, firm hands clutching at me everywhere, and after a moment, my body relaxes and enjoys the moment, laughing to myself because it gives me the feeling that I'm riding on a cloud.

They set us down after we glide all around the room, heads swirling with thrills and excitement. We finish the rest of our dinner and retreat back to our quarters for the night. It feels so early that I can't fall asleep. Even when I'm relaxed and dressed into sleep wear, I just stare up at the ceiling, seeing shapes in the blackness that results from the tiny speck of light the red spiral staircase gives off. I hear the slumbered breathing of everyone around me, listen to them toss and turn, and I can't help but think back on my old house in Candor. The peacefulness of my room, the hum of nature outside my window, and how easily I was able to fall asleep in that old, lumpy bed.

I can't think about it anymore. It's apart of the person I used to be, not of the person I am now. My world is not black and white. It's black and red and with pastel colors running behind my eyes. Clouds are white and not grey. I see everything differently. I'm not completely reconstructed, I know the hardest is yet to come, but I'm anxious until it does. I don't doubt my ability to succeed or fail. It's in everyone, but I can't afford to let it get to me. I know I deserve this chance, just like everyone before me and everyone that sleeps their insecurities away around the bunk.

This is my home now.

* * *

Our wake up call in the morning is anything but pleasant.

A noise that mimics pans being hit with a stick drowns our ears and we stir, groaning when the bright light flicks on, making our retinas dilate painfully. I yank the covers over my head to shield my poor eyes, not wanting to leave the bed's warmth. If Mocky was here, he'd paw at my face and meow me awake, which can be nice and incessantly aggravating at the same time.

Four's voice seeps in from the staircase. "I want everyone in the Pitt," he tells us. "Two minutes."

I lay in bed until his footsteps fade away, and take a couple of seconds to myself, keeping the blanket over my face until I knock the sleepiness from my eyes and body, then jump up to put on my clothes. The others hurry to get ready, stumbling into their uniform and cleaning themselves up in the bathrooms. I splash my face with cold water and run my hands through my hair to get it smooth and tangle free again. I always look a mess in the mornings. It's just something I have to work with.

We jog to the Pit before time is up and stand in an uneven line as Four paces the floor. He starts with an explanation on our stages of training. There are two: physical and mental, just as I assume. Both are meant to push us over the limit, to weed out the weak and keep the strong. The results ultimately decide one's future within Dauntless; who rises to leader stance and who get's stuck guarding a door.

I don't know which will be best for me.

I see Eric leaning on a wide block, not speaking until Four finishes. "The rankings will also determine who gets cut," he says coolly from his post.

"Cut?" Christina, the true mouthy girl from Candor echos, confused.

Eric stands and saunters closer. "At the end of each stage of training, the lowest ranking initiates will be leaving us."

"To do what?" A boy asks shyly.

"There's no going home to your families, so you'd live factionless."

"Why didn't we know that?" Another says.

"It's a new rule," Eric answers simply.

But none of use are too keen on it. "A new rule?" Christina repeats, unhappy. "Somebody should have told us that."

"Why? Would you have chosen differently?" Eric questions her. "Out of fear? I mean, if that's the case, you might as well get out now. If you're really one of us, it won't matter to you that you might fail. You chose us," he scans our group and his eyes fall on me, holding my gaze for an unbearably long time. I want to look away, but the intensity of his gaze is like a magnet and I'm the paper clip. "Now we get to choose you."

Something in his words resonates with me. It doesn't inspire me, make me feel good, or even fill my own head with disillusions. Failing doesn't matter to me, because if I do, it won't change a thing. What's there to go back to when you don't have a family?

So I risk it all.

We start with guns.

Four and another instructor take us out onto a desolate rooftop and arms us each with rifles and protective vests, in case a bullet somehow ricochet's off a hard surface and hits us in the chest. The gun feels foreign in my hand, smooth, surprisingly light, and the realization that one tiny squeeze of the trigger can end someone's life makes me want to drop it and never touch it again. But under the scrutiny of the instructor's, I know I need to hold it like it's made for me and I'm born for weaponry. They have to show me how it works a few times before I can fully comprehend it, but even then, the process is rocky. I aim with little to no confidence and miss the desired target with each shot.

I almost give up, and take a breather, but seeing the rest achieve the direct hit after so many misses fuels the drive in me to not stop until I make at least one. It takes a lot of time, and even more ammo, but in the end, after almost twenty firings, I hit the target, right where I'm suppose to. I smile, exhaling with relief and another emotion that feels like pride swelling in me, then sit back to give my aching trigger finger a break. It hurts when I try to uncurl it from it's awkward position and the skin all around it is red and sensitive to touch. There's nothing I can do to ease the discomfort, so I just hold it straight with my other fingers to prevent it from recoiling back into it's previous shape. Maybe I'll craft a makeshift splint when I get back to base.

So I sit and wait until Four brings us down, and he does after so much time, only to tell us to shed the jackets because we're going for a little jog. I know what he means by that. We're going to running for hours, going wherever he wants to take us and however fast he wants us to do it.

I quickly dunk my hand in ice water and pat it dry before changing into a proper clothes and shoes for our session. The icy sensation on my fingers soothes the painful throb and it gradually fades away as we head back down to the training room. I see Eric supervising a spar, but he glances at Four when he brushes past him and his gaze slides to every one of us when we follow tightly knit together. When he looks at me, I can't bring myself to hold contact for too long, unlike the last time. Something about him just makes my bones feel brittle. I duck my head and tuck a strand of hair back as I pass him.

Instead of running miles back and forth inside the limited space, Four decides to lead us back out into daylight. It makes me happy, as it's a while since I've done something I once considered relatively normal. Exercise is not uncommon in Candor. Most do it to get out out the confinement that their houses can sometimes inflict. It's therapeutic to feel the sun's warmth on your skin and the wind blowing through your hair. It gives me such a different motivation than working in the dark, cold Dauntless building, like moving out from a hollow tree into a soft bed of eagle feathers. I'm not a particularly fast runner, but I keep up with the middle and stick to the outer rim so I get a clear shot of Four and which paths he takes us. We reach almost every corner until our legs burn, and then some more. It's difficult to keep up with his quick stride and ridiculously high stamina. It's no wonder why he came in first in his class.

When we pass under a bridge, we stop when we see a group of factionless citizens making their camp. Most of them are sickly, older, and the clothes they wear barely cover their backs. They're surviving from nothing, and it makes me wonder how they made it this far. They obviously have more strength than we think, than what the faction that kicked them out thinks.

"Check it out, stiff," the boy from the rooftop jump tells Tris. I think his name is Peter. His tone is very mocking, same as the time when we had our verbal spat. "That's gonna be your new family. Go say hi." I glance over at Tris, but she doesn't say anything and something inside of me snaps. I know what I'm about to say is only going to add salt to the wound, but a part of me doesn't care.

He doesn't care either, so why should I?

I'm not afraid of him.

I lean in close to him. "Isn't that your mom over there?" I whisper, watching his expression shift from amusement to anger. He looks down at me with a prominent scowl. "Aren't you going to introduce us?" I ask, completely serious, but the temptation to chuckle is strong when he glares at me so vehemently. He's pissed. I can tell from his eyes and makes me all the more satisfied. Nobody can take what they dish.

The initiates burst into laughter at my dig and I even see Tris crack a smile, but she hides it better than the rest, lowering her head a little.

Peter's lips part to shoot something back at me, but Four puts out the flame before it can rise. "That's enough, initiate," he says, giving me an especially reprimanding look.

I don't press his warning and nod. "Sorry. Couldn't help myself."

He doesn't reciprocate that and orders us to get moving again, and we fall in line behind him once more. Tris, a couple others and I manage to keep pace with him this time, our lagging distance nipping just inches at his heels, the second wind giving us more energy and drive to runner faster, stronger. All the while, I feel someone's eyes bore into the back of my head and I know it's Peter, probably fantasizing on the ways he can break my neck or smother me in my sleep. I know what I did will only make things more tense in the training center and possibly create a conflict that I never wanted to be made. He'll take pay back on me somehow, I know it's coming. Whether it's through another sarcastic remark or in the ranks.

Either way, it's worth it.

* * *

The fighting never seems to stop.

I stand around a small encircle and watch with baited breathe as two boys go at it. They toss each other on the mat, throw kicks and punches hard enough to leave bruises and break bones. They stumble toward the edge, forcing me to inch back so they don't run me over and bring me down with them. I never seen this much amount of violence up close and I don't know how to take it. I feel like I should be supportive like the others, but I can't help but flinch every time a person's fist meets someone's cheek. It gets close to the point where I drift along the very back audience so I don't have to be up close when blood starts to flow.

The boy's fight ends quickly, a former Erudite by the name of Edward taking the win. He's tall, lean, not tremendously intimidating looking, but the amount of force he carries in a single punch states otherwise.

The celebration is short. He receives a few pats on the back before we separate into groups of two again. They make us practice our dexterity and the chance to hit our opponent right on point. Four demonstrates with the Christina, who catches on quite well. She hits elbows with him, alternating from left to right as he does the same. Apparently this is supposed to improve our striking. Doesn't seem too hard. When I'm paired with an smaller girl from Amity, I mimic what they showed us with seldom difficulty. It's much easier than everything else I endured before, so there's not much to complain for.

Compared to vigorous running and firearms, this is a drop in the ocean.

Though my arms begin to feel sore after minutes of continuous stimulation, I force myself to keep going. I know some of the initiates think I'm weak, that I'm a typical Candor loud mouth who covers up weariness by feigning strength, perseverance. And they were right at one point. But not anymore. There's a flame in me that simmers so hotly for succession I have to constantly bring myself down to prevent it from spilling over, burning everyone around me. Transferring to Dauntless is a chance I can't let wither away. My sister is out there making it on her own laurels.

I know I can too.

"First jumper," Eric announces, breaking my concentration, and we all turn to look at him. "In the ring." I glance back at Tris and she appears caught off guard, but walks toward the ring diligently. I can see the fear in her eyes. "Last jumper," Eric adds, and Molly comes forth. "Time to fight."

Molly steps into the ring and gives one unimpressed look at her opponent. "How long do we fight for?"

"Until one of you can't continue."

Four comes closer. "Or one of you concedes."

But Eric overrules him. "According to the old rules. New rules: no one concedes." I see Four say something quiet to Eric, but it's too low for me to hear. The tension between them is so tangible. It makes me curious on what they were like during their training. I imagine nothing short of rivals.

"You'll be scored on this so fight hard," Eric says and steps closer to the stage. He waves a hand when they stand idle. "Go!"

I stand by the brim of the ring, arms crossed with one hand lightly covering my mouth out of nervous impulse. They circle each other for a moment, neither taking shots, and Tris stumbles back outside of the ring's limits when Molly gets too close, almost bumping into my position. She catches herself and takes a glance around. Everyone stares at her like she's a martian and I can't help but feel bad for her. I smile at her apprehensively when she meets my gaze levelly, as I'm giving her silent encouragement to finish the fight, regardless if she comes out on top or not.

She takes a deep breathe and re-enters.

I hold my breathe and wince when Molly punches her in the face. Tris spins, holding her cheek and Molly grasps her in a headlock. With every punch she blows at her midriff, I feel my own pulse uptick as if I feel the same amount of pain. It's so unbearable, so difficult to watch someone get hurt like this. I want to look away, but my heart lurches in my throat when Tris is thrown to the ground. I lace my fingers together, pressing them to my lips in a silent prayer for her to get up.

_Get up._

_Get up, get up._

But she doesn't. Molly looks at Eric for a confirmation and he gives her one without words being spoken. She punches Tris in the face, knocking her out cold. She lays still, still breathing heavily but not one part of her moves. I move quickly up into the ring as soon as Molly exists and kneel down to check on her. I feel her pulse and it's still beating steadily. She's okay and I breath a sigh of relief.

"Leave her," Eric growls when I take a hold of Tris's arm and aid her to her feet, but I ignore him. He doesn't like that. "Are you deaf, initiate?"

I let Tris walk in front of me. "No, I heard you," I reply, and meet his gaze. His stare is like simmering flames, but it's not like I haven't been burned before. I turn my back on him and address Tris. "You might wanna get something cold on that," I tell her, nodding at the welt forming on her cheek.

She cradles the spot with her hand and nods. "Thanks," she rasps and scampers over to the table.

When she sits down, Eric decides to make another announcement. "Next fight," he says boastfully and I turn around fully to him. This can't be good. "Last jumper," he continues, glancing at Molly very quick before switching to me. "Second jumper."

I freeze.

_Me._

He means me.

I take a deep breath and walk into the ring. Molly stands ready opposite of me, sizing me up. I know I'm not tough competition because if she can beat down a small girl like Tris, imagine what she can do to me. Her man hands can probably crush cedar wood. She doesn't look intimidated or the slightest bit nervous. I don't either on the outside. I stay calm, cool and collected, but on the inside, I'm a crumbling building of clay. My toes curl anxiously on the dry floor and I can feel Eric's eyes shrinking me into a pebble of dust.

The tiniest draft can blow me to the wind.

Molly stalks her way toward me and I duck automatically when her fist comes at my head, but I'm not fast enough and she catches my cheekbone. I wince, and shut my eyes as pain explodes behind my forehead. It isn't like anything I've ever felt before. It's primal, like inserting a hot poker into a burn wound. The blood under my skin pulsates and I feel temporarily dizzy. It's difficult for me to stand.

Molly sees the opening and pounces on me for a headlock, but I've been expecting it from the start. I can sense her game plan and it's the same as her fight before. I can almost count it out in my head. I swerve at my left, but she counters it with a kick to my ribs, which I'm able to withstand, though with shaking knees.

But I have no advantage. I'm not strongly built or particularly tall. My hands are small and don't carry much force. I'm not something to be physically reckoned with.

Though, I can solve problems. One way or another.

Molly swings again and hits me square in the face, and my head snaps around, blood forming on my lips from a deep cut on my gum. By that time, the pain is a crackling blaze and pain makes me angry; anger makes me act stupidly. For the first time, I actually _want_ to hurt someone, to inflict agony that they inflict on others. I see red, and it boils the hotness in my veins at a breaking point so high it threatens to flood and spill over to the floor.

I stand up straighter and wipe the blood from my mouth with the back of my hand. I see the derangement in Molly's eyes and I know she thinks she has this was already won, but she doesn't. Not while I'm still on my feet. I let her come to me again and wait until she's within arms length, and side step when she tries taking another jab. I strike first and punch her directly at her sternum. She stumbles backwards with a gasp, which I force her farther back with a punch to the gut. She doubles over and without thinking, I bring my knee up to meet her face one time, then add another, then one more.

That's all she can take and I watch her fall to floor, panting and bleeding from her nose. My chest heaves and the aching in my ribcage worsens from her strong kick. I wrap an arm loosely around it, hunching over slightly, but the contact makes me wince. People clap and cheer for my victory, but I don't do anything. I just study the blood painting my fingers and wonder how a color so beautiful can mean such terrible things.

"Way to go, Char," someone says and it pulls me from my trance. I glance around, realizing everyone has their sights trained on me and it makes me feel self conscience, so I turn to leave, but pause when I see that Molly is still laying on the floor.

I hesitate for a second before walking up and casually offering a hand. It's the least I can do.

Molly glares up at me, then down at my hand, too prideful.

"Are you gonna take it or not?" I say.

She dabs at the blood leaking from her nose then slowly, grabs my hand, letting go quickly once she regains her footing. She nods at me out of respect and walks out of the ring first. I follow after a moments delay, but nearly collapse on my knees when my ribcage feels like it's about to smash into pieces. I trip over my own feet, but a powerful hand curls around my forearm and keeps me balanced.

It's Eric.

"You hurt?" He asks. His grip feels like cold steel.

I shake my head.

He raises his pierced eyebrow in question. "You're holding your stomach."

I look down at myself and realize I'm still clutching my middle. It feels raw and burns like a summer's sun. "I'm fine," I say, but my voice is weak and implies the opposite.

Eric's eyes give me a once over. "Someone get her to the infirmary," he says and releases my arm.

"I told you, I'm fine," I bite.

He looks at me very calmly, but doesn't say anything, as if my words mean nothing, and walks away. I glower at his distancing figure and limp toward the infirmary as someone guide's me carefully so I don't take any tumbles on the way there. It turns out one of my ribs has a stress fracture and is badly bruised. The nurse can't touch the area without me whimpering in pain. I bite my lip and pressed a hand against my mouth when she applies a packet of ice to the tender spot and holds it there for a few minutes. Then she tapes a thin bandage over the fracture and tells me to take it easy for the rest of the day.

I carefully walk my way back to the training room and lean against the table where Tris treats her swollen cheek. I sit three spaces down from her and watch the others practice. It takes my mind off the throbbing in my mid riff. The nurse told me that I'd be alright if I let it heal for the day and avoid torso hits at all costs during any future fights. If the fracture worsens, they'd have no choice but to kick me out. Sitting back and doing nothing is hard enough, but at this point, I will take anything to stay.

"Alright, guys, over here," Eric says after a few minutes and strides to the ranking board. Everyone jogs after him in anticipation to see our spots, though I'm the last one to walk up as my minor injury inhibits my mobility. I don't expect my score to be very high. "Listen up," Eric continues. "Know what this board is? It's your life. We grade you every day. If you're still in the red by the end of the first stage, you're out."

I snap my gaze from him to the board and blink once in surprise.

I'm in the fifteenth slot.

I made it above the line.

* * *

During dinner, I loose my appetite halfway through and decide to retire early to my bunk and catch up on sleep. Maybe having a late bath won't be too bad either. I couldn't this morning under the gawking gaze of all the male initiates, so I had to endure another day of training with damp, clammy skin. But now that it's dark and my muscles have relaxed, I can't sleep feeling so filthy. I just have to wash up one way or another. The others are still eating so I decide it's the best time as any take a dip. I excuse myself and skip down the dark corridors, thinking and planning just in case they come back early.

As I turn a corner, I almost bump straight into someone, but catch myself in time and remain on my feet.

"Oh, sorry," I apologize, not realizing who the person is until I look at her full face.

It's Molly.

I don't say anything right away, and just offer a tentative smile, which she refuses to even acknowledge. She must be still harboring a grudge over that fight.

"You did good today," I say to break the ice. "During the fight, I mean. You almost had me," I laugh nervously afterward in hopes of easing the mood, but she doesn't answer and only narrows her eyes. I don't like the way she's looking at me. It feels...threatening. "No hard feelings, okay?" I add more seriously.

She stares at me for a second and with no change of expression, punches me in the stomach.

* * *

**A/N: Thank you so much for all the feedback for the first chapter! I'm happy people liked it. Don't know if I'll make this AU yet, but I'll be borrowing both book and movie elements. ****Eric/Charlotte interactions will increase as updates come. I want to make this sort of a slow burn, as I feel Eric would be particularly difficult to fall in love with, and vice versa with Charlotte.**

**Anyways, I hope this chapter turned out okay. Leave me a review? :)**

**Thanks for reading!**


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